Basil on the Rocks
by The Grey Piper
Summary: Life at Fawlty Towers takes a very unpleasant turn of events. WARNING: This is not a humourous story.


Basil On The Rocks

Basil Fawlty sat at the saloon bar of Fawlty Towers, the Torquay hotel of which he was owner and manager. He was not managing the hotel today. The door into the bar was locked: he disliked the company of hotel guests under the best of circumstances, and today he was refusing the company of anyone. His eyes shifted toward the clock on the wall behind the bar, shifted as if trying to pretend they were not looking at the time again, probably for the tenth time in the last five minutes. Pretending they were not watching the slow drag of the day's progress. It was eleven in the morning, three minutes past eleven, if the accuracy of the clock was accepted.

It had been a little after nine when he stumbled downstairs into the lobby and greeted Polly and Manuel with a vacant stare, a stare which was returned with a glance of pity and downcast eyes, mumbled greetings. Basil headed directly into the saloon bar and locked the door behind him. Hang the hotel, hang the guests. Let Polly deal with the sods today. She usually did, of course. Stepping behind the bar, he retrieved a bottle of rather expensive Scotch whisky and a glass, then, coming around to the front side, made himself uncomfortable on a barstool, and poured himself a large breakfast.

Two hours. Half the bottle was gone. Basil couldn't remember how much had been in it to start. It hadn't been full, he remembered that much. He squeezed his eyes shut, hung his head. Too much else was crystal clear in his recollection right now. Too much of yesterday.

Yesterday. No, the day before. Driving north to Bath, leaving in the dusk of an early summer morning. Sybil at his side. Wife of – how many years? Seventeen. Would have been eighteen. This was going to be a lovely trip, a proper holiday for the first time in more years than they could recall.

'I can't understand why it was so difficult to get you away from that place, Basil,' Sybil said as the car accelerated to speed on the A-380. 'It's not as if the business will go to ruin without you around. Quite the reverse, I suspect.'

'Thank you so much, my love. I'm glad seventeen years of pouring my heart and soul into our livelihood are so well appreciated.'

'Basil, you know very well you hate the work, hate the guests, hate the idea of having to be at all sociable. You're a year away from a stroke or nervous breakdown at least, Dr Price told you that.'

'Rubbish.'

'And you're a bloody sight closer than that to losing me. I've put up enough with your moods, your tempers, your escapades. We need this, we need this just as a start. Two days off for ourselves in Bath. Now I've compromised with you on this trip, more than I really thought I should, but that's what compromise means, isn't it?'

Basil focused on the road, formed a suitable response. Already the powder keg was smoking, by God he wasn't going to be the one to make it blow. 'You're so right, my love. And may I say ' He stumbled over the unfamiliar words. 'May I say how much I appreciate your indulging me. This once. Once again. I really do enjoy the horses. And this is a big race day.'

'All I'll say is you have forty-five pounds to lose to the turf accountants. That includes programmes, drinks, whatever. Not a penny more. When it's gone, it's gone. No credit cards, no cash machines, no pawning your watch. God help you if one more farthing gets spent, I'll take the car and be seeing my solicitor before you can say "Please Sybil". I've forgiven you that one episode, but never again.'

'I understand, dearest.'

'And I have the same tomorrow. Forty-five pounds for shopping and hairdresser and spa.'

'We stick together like a happily married couple, and no complaining about the other.'

'And it's our turn to be guests in a hotel. We'll be nice guests, and hopefully have a better time than ' Sybil bit her tongue. She really was trying not to insult her husband's professional behaviour any more.

She sensed the thundering silence from her husband. Dawn was breaking over the green hills of the West Country. The sky was clearing; yesterday and the day before had rained continuously, and Basil had been on the verge of a rage about the weather the whole time. Nighttime had seen the rain slacken.

Sybil knew it. She had awoken at about three, walked downstairs, stepped into the back garden, and enjoyed her first cigarette for a week. God, they were getting expensive. The pound collapsing, taxes skyrocketing. And of course, Dr Price warning her off of them. That was supposed to be part of her side of the arrangement. She was getting better. A solid week without. Well, with the tension of this little holiday impending, she really needed it. Sybil looked at the last half inch or so of white paper before the filter, then wrapped her lips around the butt. She inhaled deeply, head back, eyes closed, felt the drizzle trickle around her eyes. She flicked the cigarette, burned down to the filter, into the wet grass, and slowly exhaled. Then she coughed, deeply, wetly. Bloody rain, she thought, it's giving me a cold. Sybil thought again of Dr Price. Of the lump he had found, that she had not told Basil about yet. She counted the cigarettes left in the pack – five – and tucked it back on top of the cabinet by the kitchen door, with the box of matches. Please, God, let us get ourselves mended before I have to worry about me.

Sybil shook her head, was back in the car, her hand again straying over her chest. The sun was shining nicely over the road and the countryside. In the distance she could see the racetrack at Exeter, scene of some of Basil's long-ago indiscretions.

Indiscretion. What a polite, British, word, she thought, as she recalled the other incident referred to as Basil's 'indiscretion'. He never had really admitted to it, she thought.

She had come home early from golf that afternoon, gone straight to their room. Opened the door to the lavatory; she needed the loo, Basil was in the shower. Odd for Basil to be in the shower in the middle of the day. The door squeaked, and he uttered one word from behind the shower curtain.

'Polly?'

Then had come the screaming, the tears. Basil furiously silent, neither admitting nor denying, but his face purpling with shame was admission enough.

Confrontation with Polly. The dirty girl on her knees, begging for forgiveness. Sybil didn't know which was more contemptible, Polly's groveling, or her own relenting. Polly, after all, was the real reason for whatever success the hotel enjoyed. Sacking Polly would be pulling the rug out from under herself.

God, how she hated Polly. And hated herself for needing Polly.

'Looks like it will be a lovely day after all, Basil.' She stared at the side of his face for a few moments. 'Good Lord, Basil. Are you smiling?'

Basil continued driving in silence for a few heartbeats, then 'Yes,' he responded. 'I suppose I am. Just for the moment, mind you. The car may break down in the next half hour, it may start raining again, I may need to stop and use the loo, not make it in time and wet myself, or all of the above, which is more my kind of life. But for the moment – yes, Sybil, I am happy with myself, and the weather, and – and with – you.'

Basil took another long swallow from the glass. 'Sod it.' He stood, walked over to the vending machine by the end of the bar. He steadied himself with one hand, the other fumbled in his pocket for coins. He looked at the machine, then at the coins in his hand. Numbers added slowly through his brain. 'Sod it,' he repeated, and stumbled behind the bar again, opened the cash till. He extracted a few pound coins, made his way back to the machine, fed it money. The machine dropped a pack of unfiltered Players into the dispensing tray. Basil retrieved these, made his way back to his stool. His fingers fumbled at the pack, then at the matches, until the Players Navy Cut burned in his mouth. How many years since he had smoked? He had quit the first time not long after opening the hotel, mainly for image considerations, although in those days, smoking had not carried the stigma it did today. He had resumed several years later, after a few difficult times with Sybil and the business, and decided he didn't care what his image did to business. Quit again when smoking started becoming so tightly pegged as a 'common' habit.

He knew Sybil was trying to quit, also knew that she had a pack or two stashed about the place, though of course the machine which had just dispensed its tobacannic bounty to him was available to her as well. Had been, he thought. Had been.

He puffed somewhat tentatively at first, then sucked deep, feeling the taste of the rich smoke. Good old Players, Basil thought. He studied the familiar square packet, the colourful seascape, the jaunty sailor, real English Jack-a-Tar. An odd phrase flitted through his mind – '...folding over the package until the face of the sailor is almost totally obscured...' Something like that. Must have been an old telly programme. Funny what the brain turned up when it was being fumigated with whisky vapour.

His eyes glanced outside. Another lovely day. Three in a row. What was the world coming to? The pleasant weather vaguely angered him. He wanted rain. Torrential rain. Black stormclouds, thunder and lightening. Lightening bolts blasting trees, houses, hotels.

The weekend had been quite nice, to start.

Basil and Sybil arrived at their hotel in Bath about mid-morning, checked in, settled in, had tea. The hotel was rather like Fawlty Towers itself, had Fawlty Towers been run by a cheerful, accommodating couple who ran the hotel for the pleasure of the guests. Refreshed, they drove over to the Bath Racecourse on Lansdowne Hill.

Basil entered the grounds feeling positively jaunty. It was just past noon, and the first race would be at about two. Sybil entered with mixed feelings. She had always liked horses, but as animals in their own right, not as tools for separating a fool from his money. Surprised, she realised that in her distaste for racetracks was a streak of snobbishness worthy of Basil himself. 'Sport of kings'? Unless you were the king – or queen – betting on the horses seemed to Sybil to be rather a lower class hobby. Not owning a racehorse of course – that certainly spoke of money and a certain class. But shoving fistfuls of pound notes at a bookmaker with the hope of getting rich – that was no better than playing poker in a casino. Sybil pulled back from herself for a moment – am I really such a toff? It's really not so, it is a perfectly respectable hobby, even if a few blokes go off the deep end once in a while and lose a bundle. Nothing wrong with having a drink of an evening either, even if you do find the occasional poor chap who's ruined himself with it.

'Well, Sybil, what do you think? Not bad at all, what? Fresh air, green grass, sport of kings.' Sybil started as Basil used the royal epithet she had just been mulling over. 'No reason you can't enjoy yourself here, you know. My God, just the sight of all that horseflesh thundering down the track must stir something inside you, no? Even if you don't have a flutter yourself, you can at least enjoy the spectacle.'

'Basil, I'm not going to have a flutter, but I promise to try and enjoy the spectacle you are so fond of. Just don't get overly fond of it.' She caught herself too late. I'm sorry, she thought. I'm really trying not to nag. 'Basil, why don't you go look over the horses, and I'm going to go on into the buffet, find us a table, sit down for a bit. You'll be able to find me later, won't you? Maybe I'll walk 'round the paddocks later on with you.'

'Well, whatever you think best, my fairest. I'll just take a quick walkabout, as they say, and be back with you.'

'Basil.' Sybil took Basil's hand I hers. 'We're here today for you. Take your time. I'll be here. Enjoy your horses.' She smiled at him. Let today be a new start. 'Basil. I love you, you do know that, don't you?' Sybil thoroughly enjoyed the look on her husband's face. Poor thing, looks like he's choking on his morning kipper. She stretched up on tiptoes, put a brief kiss on his cheek. 'Believe it or not, I do want to spend the rest of my life with you.' She shoved the question of how long that might be to a dark corner of her mind's attic, along with the words 'lump' and 'malignant'.

Basil was still trying to speak, managed to spit out a handful of words 'Ah. Yes. Of course, well yes, married, husband and wife. Love each other, best case, of course. Thank you Syb, and I of course, I, that is to say – I love you too, and I'll meet you back here in a half hour or so.' Still flustered, Basil headed off to the paddocks to look over the racers before making the rounds of the various bookmakers. Forty-five pounds. A lovely day, indeed.

Inside the clubhouse restaurant, Sybil headed for the buffet, then the bar, settled down with a plate of smoked salmon and a stylish margarita.

Basil took more than an hour and a half outside, chatting up the turf accountants, trying to hobnob with the horse owners, only once flirting with a girl leading a horse. He flashed her a face-splitting smile, tugged at the sleeves of his elegant tweed jacket, tried to look as if he might be the owner of the horse that had just gone on ahead of her. He found her raucous laughter jarring both to the ear and to the heart.

Basil returned to the clubhouse, worked his way through the crowds, looking for the familiar beehive of hair. He spotted it – finally – in a far corner. He studied the surroundings of this central court area, looked at the notes he had made on his racing programme, and approached a window to place two small wagers. His pulse freshened as he retrieved his tickets, and smiled to himself at the thought of winning one of them. If even went well, he could splurge a bit on the next, and then – oh! he was counting winnings already. He elbowed his way back through the crowd, found Sybil at a table. Oh God, he thought, what have I done? Why does she have that look on her face? No, not the familiar angry Basil-you're-in-for-it-now look he knew so well, it was – odd. He sat down at the table. 'Finally enjoying yourself, my pet?'

Sybil's face broke into a huge grin. 'Lovely Basil. Jus' lovely. Did you hear me, I said "lovely Basil" like you was lovely! Wha' a laugh!" Her grinning face seemed to spiral about on her neck for a moment before stopping. She reached for the glass on the table in front of her. 'Oh dear, izz empty again. Where's Polly? Polly!' Bemused faces turned in her direction from surrounding tables.

'Oh God Sybil, how much have you had to drink? It hasn't been that long, has it? Two three?'

'Don' know. Los' count. Two margaritas. Then tried something wif gin in it.'

'Something with gin in it?'

'Yes – a large glass!' Sybil's head tipped back and laughter guttered from her throat, again drawing stares from nearby people.

A man in something like a uniform approached the table. He addressed Basil. 'Beg pardon sir, but is this lady with you?'

'Yes, she is. She is my wife.'

'I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to remove her from the area before she causes a fuss. We're not asking you to leave the grounds, mind you, just she might feel a little better after walking around in some fresh air. Away from our other guests, if you take my meaning, sir.'

'Yes, yes, of course, I understand. Not to worry. Leave it to me.'

Basil sat with his head drooping low over the bar. God, what a spectacle she had made of herself. Funny when you thought about it. Prim old Sybil, stick-in-the-mud, look-down-the-nose at anyone having too good a time, would have done her old Northern Puritan ancestors proud. Until yesterday. Would have been funnier it hadn't been so humiliating for him. Walking her around until she could stand up by herself. Running up to get another wager or two in. And happy day! he had ended up twenty pounds ahead. Not much, but ahead. It was the principal of the thing. Then there was the problem of smuggling Sybil into the hotel. Couldn't be embarrassed like that. He couldn't think of the last time he had seen Sybil drunk at all, let alone falling down like that.

There had been a time, though. Not long after they were married, before the hotel. A time which Basil occasionally thought of as _when Sybil was a fun girl_. Sometimes too much fun.

He was not long out of the Army, trying to find his place in the civilian world. He had found, in the Royal Army Catering Corp, that cooking suited him, at least it was tolerable work, and had found work as cook in a number of restaurants and pubs in the West Country. The work itself was good, but his personality kept getting him moved on – once or twice quite involuntarily – on, but inescapably upward. Finally, he was hired as chef for the restaurant in a posh hotel in Southampton. Here, he came into his own. Not cook anymore, but bloody chef mind you, and his virulent temper and abusive manner were expected – all the great chefs were ruddy barstards, that was common knowledge in the trade. Basil Fawlty prospered in the kitchen, he was content, his leg still bothered him frequently, and the Army and NHS doctors told him that the shrapnel was in there for life. He thought that a private doctor could probably do it, but he knew it would be years before could afford that.

The nightmares were less frequent too. The episode which had ended his Army hitch was becoming more firmly the past. The position over-run in a surprise pre-dawn attack. Even at the time it had been a dreamlike swirl of images, the soil geysering from shellbursts, the Chinese soldiers swarming through the compound, the pile of bodies that had been his mates, the rifle in his hand sputtering to life, then exhausting, watching the brass globe roll down the slope of the shell crater. Holding the breath, literally, wanting to close the eyes, but watching the explosion in horrified mesmerization. First, too bright to see, then too dark, and still couldn't breath. He was face down in the mud, painfully pushed himself over. Vague awareness of more shapes rushing by in the darkness, recognising American uniforms finally.

Then – rescue. Corpsmen, a stretcher, a hospital. The doctor sitting by his cot, explaining what a lucky bloke he was. 'You've got your Blighty, old bean.' And that walking would be painful for a while; his injuries were serious enough for a medical discharge, but not that bad for the long run.

For two or three years afterwards, he would awake screaming at least once a week, as the Americans swarmed down to finish the job the Chinese had started, leaving him a pile of dismembered limbs.

Basil refilled his drink. Looking back, he had liked being hotel chef. Was that why he had resented Terry so much, he wondered. It was Sybil who had urged him on, told him how grand it would be to be a hotelier, kindled his awareness of status. And she would drink. He didn't realise it at the time, still accustomed to Army mates out on a bender. When she graduated to two bottles of gin a week, he knew something was wrong. He took matters in hand, laid it on the line.

It was not long after that a relative of Sybil's died, a minor aristocrat, who nevertheless was rich, or had been rich, and left her a tidy little packet. Enough, she observed, for the down payment on a hotel. Thus had begun their career as hoteliers. And, as Basil thought, the forging of the great chain around his leg that tied him to Torquay and Sybil. He missed Southampton. Torquay was the end of the road to nowhere. Fawlty Towers was a twenty-three room mausoleum.

Basil drained the glass, emptied the remnants of the bottle into it. He began planning an excursion behind the bar to get a fresh bottle. Could be tricky. Never know where danger lurks. Behind the bar. In the kitchen. In the bath. Oh yes. Bath. Yesterday morning. Sybil drinking amazing amounts of morning coffee, showering, and popping out none the worse for her binge. Redoubtable woman.

'Come along Basil, I still want to go into the town today.' Another pleasant day. They had walked into town, along the High Street, passing the larger stores, the Marks and Spencer, stopping in the quainter little curio and antique shops. Not buying, just shopping, possibly to pick something up on the way back.

Reaching their destination, or Sybil's destination. Bathworks Beauty Spa. 'Basil, I know we wanted to be together all weekend, but I'm afraid you'll be rather out of place here. I'll be tucked away with a beauty specialist anyway, but only for an hour or so. I'll be taking the mud wrap, spa soak, and hairdresser, so maybe you come back later when I'm through.'

'Of course my dear. Enjoy yourself, and I'll be back.' Basil walked on up the street, admiring the ancient architecture of the city. Not a bad place for a holiday, he thought. Well of course, even the ancient Romans came here. He stopped and looked at pub. God what a place, he thought, Must be here two hundred years at least. Stone mullioned windows ranged over the door of the Green Lion pub, stone pillars flanked it. 'Napoleon called England a nation of shopkeepers. But we still showed him who ruled the waves. Maybe we are a nation of shopkeepers, but it's our pubs have given us hearts of oak.' Buoyed with this patriotic thought, Basil entered the pub. He sat down, gave the barman a winning smile. 'Pint of best bitter, please.' He studied the menu chalked on the board behind the bar. 'And shepherd's pie, if you would.'

Familiar, Basil mused. His first work after the Army had been in a place much like this in Plymouth.

Two pints and shepherd's pie came and went. Sitting back, watching the BBC on the set at the end of the bar. I'm happy, Basil thought. This isn't bad at all. Then came the vague awareness of a commotion outside, the sound of police and ambulance sirens screaming by, people running. The thought, _What was that noise just then, that sounded like an explosion? _Stony fingers of ice reaching up and around to caress his heart. _Yes, I know what an explosion sounds like._

More and more people racing by outside. Basil dropped some money on the bar, stumbled out, following the crowd. People chattering, gasping, weeping. One word filtering through the otherwise unintelligible rumble. _Bombing._ Bombing? In the High Street of Bath?

Another surrealistic nightmare whirl of images and impressions. Smoky charred street. Twisted automobile metal. Smell of burning, pungent and nasty. Young people in white uniforms pushing stretchers into ambulances, hurriedly. And one ambulance that wasn't hurrying at all. Somber-looking chap, looked like a doctor. Policeman asking, _Beg pardon, are you Basil Fawlty, sir? You'd better come along with me, Mr Fawlty._

Questions, answers. Responses at least, not a lot of answers. Man from the police, man from the hospital, Basil Fawlty.

_A bomb?_

'_Fraid so, sir, car bomb by the looks of it._

_But who...?_

_Don't know sir. The Yard don't think it's IRA, they've been quiet for a while. Could have been just a madman with a grudge against Bath._

_How many...?_

_Half a dozen injured. I'm afraid Mrs Fawlty was the only..._

_Yes. Yes I see._

_If it's any consolation, sir, it was quick. Probably didn't even know it. _

_If you like, Mr Fawlty, one of my men can drive you home. I'm sure you won't be up for driving much right now. Your car is here, in'nit?_

Riding in the passenger seat, a good old English Bobby driving. Police car behind, to bring the driver back, also radioed ahead to make a few arrangements.

Pulling into the drive of Fawlty Towers. Dark night. Bright stars. Polly and Dr Price in the foyer.

'Good evening, Mr Fawlty.'

Moment of silence. 'Evening, Polly'

'Come along to your room, Fawlty. Let me give you something to help you sleep.' Dr Price helping him up the stairs. Policemen whispering with Polly, Polly affirming that she would stay at the hotel, keep an eye on him.

Basil in bed. Dr Price opened his bag, swabbed Basil's arm, injected a little something. Warm. Feeling warm and comfortable, swiftly descending into blissful oblivion.

Then the cold reality of morning, the hard reality of the bar under his elbows, the clear reality of the empty whisky bottle in front of him.

Basil stumbled heavily to his feet, groped his way around the back of the bar again, retrieved a fresh bottle, groped his way back to the barstool. Poured a fresh charge into the glass, ignited a new cigarette. Half a dozen butts were ground out in an ashtray before him, three were ground out on the bartop itself, leaving scorches in the varnished wood.

_Scorch-marks,_ Basil thought. On the bar. On the street. _Just when it looked like things were going so well._

He looked at the radio, wanted to turn it on, play something. He didn't know what. Unbidden, a tune came into his head, from an old American movie. _Moonlight and love songs, never out of date/Hearts full of passion, jealousy and hate..._ Sybil. The passion, the jealousy, the hate. Gone. He remembered the movie. Maybe the problems of two little people don't matter a hill of beans...That was in a barroom too. Bogart drinking. Sybil gone. He thought of her last kiss, at the racetrack, not passionate, barely affectionate. But from her. _A kiss is still a kiss..._

Tomorrow he would still be here, Fawlty Towers would endure, Polly would be here, and Manuel, too. Life would go on.

_A kiss is still a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh ..._

Basil picked up his empty glass, threw it with fury across the room, watched it smash through the window.

'Play it again, Sam,' said Basil Fawlty.


End file.
